The Rose
by SS Dispatch
Summary: This is the tale of Maurice and his beloved wife, and their life before tragedy struck: how they met, how they fell in love, and how much they adored their baby girl when she was born.


**A/N: Originally featured in my listing "The Final Chapter", this particular one shot details the love between Belle's parents.**

* * *

He was a total mess. His arms, up past his elbow, were covered in mixes of paint. His apron was splattered with just as much, if not more, oil paints. In fact, Maurice was quite sure that the canvas before him had less paint on it than he had on himself. It was entirely his fault for having forgotten his palette. He had had to use his arms to hold the paint and his apron to mix it together and only then did he put paint to canvas. He looked at his canvas in dismay. It didn't look anything like what he wanted it to look like. Although, he supposed, it was only half there. He would try to unearth the image he had in mind again tomorrow. It was the beautiful sunrise on the Seine. But he was not able to do it justice. Not yet, anyway. He hoped that someday soon he could finally capture what his eyes saw every morning in Paris.

He picked his canvas off his easel, holding his paintbrushes in the same hand, and picked up the easel with his right and headed home. He navigated the streets of Paris with ease. He had been born and raised not far from the city, but when he had grown he desperately wanted to move to Paris. His dream had finally come true. He lived and breathed his art every day, and tried to sell them when he got the chance. In truth, he made little money from his paintings. The only way he was able to afford living in Paris was by living off the kindness of a cousin that lived here. His cousin, Charles, owned a bookstore and lived in the flat above and had let Maurice move in with him. Charles was able to cover the rent on the building already, but he had invited Maurice in so that he could help out once in awhile. Charles was very lazy with house upkeep, and when Maurice had arrived it had been an unmitigated disaster. Charles had gone so far as to buy new dishes when he had run out of clean ones. Maurice paid rent in the form of doing Charles' chores.

He turned the corner and headed up the street toward the bookshop. He reached for the door with his one spare finger, going to open it. But right as he did, someone walked out of the store and collided into Maurice. He was knocked back a few steps, but managed to stop himself (and his supplies) from falling, but the person who ran into him was not so lucky. He looked down and saw a woman sitting on the ground, laughing a bit. "Oh, I'm so sorry. I didn't see you there." Maurice apologized to the woman on the ground. She looked up at him, still giggling a bit, a wide smile on her face, "Oh, don't worry yourself. It happens." She picked herself up off the ground, wiping the dust off her rear. Maurice noticed a smudge of paint on the front of her dress, "Oh goodness, I'm so sorry. I believe you've gotten my paint on your dress."

She glanced down at it and laughed again, "You know, it's fine. I think I like it better that way. This shade of red looks good on me, don't you think?"

"You probably look good in any color, mademoiselle."

"Oh, so sweet." She said, walking past him, "Have a nice day, monsieur!"

He turned and smiled toward her, "You as well, madame!" He tilted his head, wondering who the strange girl was before heading into the shop. He waddled into the store awkwardly with his supplies. Charles was behind the front counter. "Oh, hullo Maurice! Done painting for the day?" He asked, looking up from his book.

"No, not quite. But I'm done for right now." Maurice said. It was only ten in the morning, he had plenty of time to work on other pieces he had started. Maurice could never be patient enough to do one piece at a time.

"Well then, would you be willing to wash the clothes then?"

Maurice tried not to roll his eyes, "Not right now, later. It takes hours, you know."

Charles sighed, "Well get it done before the weekend okay?"

"Yes, Charles." He said, heading over the staircase that lead upstairs. He paused halfway up and looked back down at Charles sitting in his empty shop. "Hey, Charles?" His cousin looked up at him expectantly. "Who was that woman who was just in here?"

Charles shrugged, "Not sure. Haven't seen her before. She bought some Shakespeare, though. Said she liked the store and would come back. Why?"

"I ran into her and got paint on her. She laughed instead of getting angry." Maurice explained simply, still wondering about it.

Charles raised an eyebrow, "What an odd woman."

"I know." There was a long pause before he said, "If she comes in again, will you let me know and ask for her name?"

Charles grinned stupidly, "Are you interested in her?"

"Not like that," Maurice said irritably, storming up the stairs and heading into the flat. He wasn't interested in the woman, that would be weird. He didn't believe in love at first sight. It was a preposterous notion to him. No, Maurice was merely curious about her. He stepped into the flat and put his unfinished painting against the wall and the easel beside it. He headed over to the sink and dropped his brushes in the sink. He was more concerned with cleaning the paint off of his skin. He took a damp rag and rubbed the paint off his arms, as a start. But he was suddenly overtaken with an idea for a sketch, enough that he forgot to clean the rest of the paint off. He patted his arms dry and raced to his room and grabbed his sketchpad and the chunk of charcoal he liked the best. Before the image could escape him, he sketched the woman's face. Her bright smile, her round eyes with laugh lines, and her chestnut hair. He had only seen her for a moment, but the image of her stayed tangible in his mind long enough for him to sketch it out. But even after he had finished sketching her in a less than accurate portrait, he could still see her face in his mind's eye.

For days and days he wondered about her. His painting improved during this time. He was able to finish his painting of the sunrise successfully, delighted with the outcome. It was a warm spring afternoon when he put the finished painting on display in the shop. He propped it up at the desk where Charles sat all day. He had painted a small cardboard sign to go next to it, a price listed on it. "You think it will sell, Maurice?" Charles asked from behind his copy of Doctor Faustus. He shot his cousin a look that went unnoticed, "Yes, I do. Why do you always sound so doubtful?"

But before Charles could answer, the front door opened, ringing the bell attached to it. Maurice glanced over his shoulder. It was her. They made immediate eye contact, and both smiled. "Good afternoon, monsieur." She said politely as she walked in.

"Afternoon, mademoiselle." He managed to say.

She approached, her eyes falling down toward the painting. She smiled, "Who made this wonderful piece? I didn't see it here last time."

"Oh, I did. Just finished it actually." Maurice said, not noticing Charles surreptitiously slipping away from the desk and going into his backroom to give them some space. Maurice might not have admitted his interest in the young woman, but Charles was not born yesterday and could tell there was something stirring between the two.

"It's gorgeous." She said, reaching down and picking it up to get a better look at it. "I do love to see the sun rising on the Seine. You captured it perfectly."

Maurice was unable to hide the slight blush on his cheeks, but he smiled kindly, "If you really like it, you can have it."Her eyes drifted to the sign that listed its price but before she could say anything about it, Maurice interjected, "Free of charge of course. A gift for you."

"No, I insist you be paid." She said firmly.

"Well, I have to insist that you accept it as a gift." He countered.

She sighed and looked at the painting, appearing to be in deep thought. Her sweet smile reappeared, although this time it seemed to express something entirely different. "I have an idea. How about instead of paying you with money, I take you to a ball in return?"

Maurice was so stunned he stood stock still, expressionless, for several moments. Was this a date? If so, women did not ask men. It was the other way around. Who was this odd woman? "Are you quite alright?" She asked, seeming genuinely concerned. He snapped out of it and cleared his throat. "Yes, yes, I'm fine."

"Well then? Would you like to come with me?"

He opened his mouth, but shut it again. He did this several times, looking a bit like a fish before he finally spat out, "Yes. I - I suppose I would."

"Wonderful!" She said delightedly. "Meet me in front of this very shop at eight o'clock tonight." She said before turning around and heading back out the front door with only a painting and no books.

Maurice leaned against the counter behind him and stared into space, trying to figure the puzzle out. Why had he said yes? Why had she invited him? Why had _she_ invited _him_? Charles had quietly reappeared behind the counter without Maurice noticing. "What was that all about then?" He asked, causing Maurice to jump a foot in the air.

"Dammit Charles, you always do that." Maurice said irritably. Charles didn't apologize. He never did. "She … invited me to tonight's ball?" He wasn't sure he believed it as he said it.

Charles widened his eyes and furrowed his brows, making Maurice chuckle. Charles was a portly man with very thick, black, caterpillar-like eyebrows which made many of his facial expressions look hilarious. "She what?" Charles said in confusion. "Did I mishear you, or did you say that she invited you to a ball?"

"No, you heard correctly."

"Blimey, she is an oddball."

* * *

 _Eight o'clock that night_

Maurice stood outside the closed up bookshop in his finest — which was not all that impressive. He had never been to a ball before and had had to purchase some new clothes with what little savings he had. He knew he would not look as wealthy as everyone else at the ball probably would, but he didn't really care. He had felt a bit of shame, at first, for his less than stunning outfit. He had wanted to impress the woman. But it occurred to him that she of all people would not care about his physical appearance much. It dawned on him then that he had still not managed to learn her name.

A coach lead by two gray horses turned the corner onto the street and came to a stop right in front of Maurice and the bookshop. The driver stepped down and opened the carriage door for him. He got in and sat down, only then realizing that he was sitting right next to her. "Oh!" He said in surprise as the carriage door shut. She laughed playfully, "Hello there,"

"I'm sorry, I'm easily startled." He apologized, happy that it was dark enough to hide his blush of embarrassment. It was actually dark enough that he couldn't make out much of her face. The street lights occasionally filled the inside of the carriage, but it was fairly dark overall.

"It's alright." She assured him.

"Do you always go to balls like this?" He asked, trying to not make his nerves obvious through the tone of his voice.

"Oh, no. This is my first. And don't ask how I've managed to get us invites to it."

"Now I'm worried."

Her laugh filled the carriage again, "Okay, I suppose I can tell you. I'm not actually a rich, socialite type. This particular ball is in the mayor's home, where I clean house. I asked the mayor politely if I could attend the ball with a guest, and he kindly agreed. I had to use most of my finances to find a dress appropriate enough for the occasion."

Maurice let out a sigh of relief, "Oh thank heavens, so did I."

"You mean to tell me you're not a wealthy painter?"

It was his turn to laugh now, "Oh god no. Are you kidding? I rarely sell anything."

"Well that's a crime. You ought to be world famous. Your paintings are gorgeous. I would fill my house with your work."

His blush deepened in the dark. "Thank you. You might be the only one though." He mumbled humbly.

"Nonsense," She insisted, "Most people haven't seen your work yet, that's all. They don't know what they're missing."

The carriage slowed to a stop. Maurice leaned forward and looked out the small window in his door. He could just barely see the mayor's home. The door on Maurice's side of the carriage opened and he stepped out, waiting at the side with a hand outstretched for her. She took it and slowly stepped out of the carriage. Only know could Maurice really get a good look of her. Her hair was curled magnificently and fell across her shoulders gracefully, a small rosebud pinned just above her right ear. Her dress was what surprised him. He knew little about women's fashion, but he could tell that despite conventions she was obviously not wearing a corset or a hoop skirt under her dress. She looked naturally beautiful. For the seventh time, Maurice wondered if what he was so attracted to was not actually her physical beauty but her disposition. He only ever noticed her outward beauty when she was laughing or smiling, when she was radiating light and joy.

She stepped down onto the ground, and he vaguely registered that she was not wearing a heeled shoe but some sort of thin flat shoe he was unfamiliar with. It was almost like she was barefoot. Everything about her was different. And he loved it. She let go of his hand. He offered his arm. She took it and they headed into the home. They found their way into the ballroom and it became even more apparent that she stood out from the crowd. The other women were decked out in giant lace caps, skirts that stood out two feet from their bodies, and waists so thin it was bordering on terrifying.

"Let's dance," She said almost immediately, taking Maurice's hand again.

"But there's no music playing yet!" Maurice said in surprise, but was nevertheless pulled along by her anyway.

"That doesn't matter. If you know how to dance, you can dance with or without music." She insisted as she pulled him into the middle of the extremely empty dance floor. She pulled Maurice toward her and they assumed the proper position. His hand found her waist. Her hand found his shoulder. Her left held his right. "You do know how to dance, right?" She asked with a playful smile. He was certain his face was bright red, embarrassed at all the looks they were getting. But he knew that if there was one thing he could do well, it was art. And that included dance. He smiled through his nerves and took the first step of their dance.

"Looks like you do! That's very reassuring." She said with another laugh. Maurice wondered if she was just full of an unlimited supply of laughs that just burst forth from her on a regular basis. Or perhaps she was just filled with a bottomless joy?

As they danced around the floor, Maurice began to notice less and less how everyone was watching them with looks of confusion and derision. He focused in on his dance partner, noticing now that her eyes were pale blue, nearly gray, in color. But despite the color being pale, everything else about her was vibrant. There was a glimmer in her eyes that he had never seen before. Some spark that he could tell was rare and unique.

Suddenly, the band started to play and the other couples appeared around them. "See, look at that? They all were jealous of how much fun we're having." She said with delight.

"Think so?"

"Know so."

He smiled fondly at her, and then it occurred to him again that he still needed to know something very important. "You know, you still haven't told me your name."

Her eyes widened and her smile faded a bit, "Oh my goodness, I didn't? Oh that's embarrassing. I did not do that intentionally, I promise. My name's Rosalie."

He smiled fondly and her own smile returned. "A beautiful name. Were your parents fond of roses?"

She nodded, "Yes, my mother's a botanist. Roses have always been her favorite. But I believe what you're supposed to say in reply is your own name."

"Oh, right, of course. Foolish of me. My name is Maurice."

"Maurice." She said the word like it was a treasure that she had to cherish. As if, spoken too much, it's magic would wear out. "I like it."

* * *

 _Three Years Later_

Maurice was up for hours working on his latest work, another portrait of Rosalie. He had done so many at this point that he rarely needed her to model. He had been out in the yard to get the most lighting on the canvas, but even he had to admit that the sun was setting and it was time for him to head in. He collapsed his easel and grabbed his supplies. He headed into their home, which was actually a converted windmill. He put his things down near the backdoor and strided into the living area, expecting to find Rosalie. But when he stepped in, she was not there like she normally was. Most evenings she was busy doing any number of activities. But he did not see her sitting in the couch as he walked in. He stepped around the room, just to be sure she was definitely not there. But he quickly realized that she was asleep, lying across the couch, just out of his sight. His worry was replaced with a tender love. She looked so effortlessly beautiful when she was asleep, even more so with her massive belly.

He knelt in front of the couch and gently tucked a lock of hair that had fallen across her cheek back behind her ear. He kissed her forehead lovingly, and just as he pulled back her eyes fluttered open. She looked up at him and smiled, stretching her arms out above her head. "I'm sorry. I don't know how I fell asleep. What time is it?"

"About eight."

She sighed and frowned, "Goodness gracious. What an early bedtime. I don't know why this baby makes me so tired, but it's both terrible and great." She said as she slowly sat up, keeping a hand on her belly. She had a hard time moving around now. The baby would be arriving any day. The lay midwife was sleeping at the neighbor's for a fortnight, waiting and ready at any given hour of the day.

Maurice sat beside her, wrapping an arm over her shoulders, "Rather be falling asleep that not being able to keep your food down though."

"Yes, that phase may have been the worst." She admitted, absently running her hand over her engorged belly. "Although, I seem to be making up for it now. I can't stop eating." With an uncanny timing, her stomach growled. They both laughed, and without having to be asked Maurice wandered into the kitchen and grabbed her an apple and a pear, her favorites at the moment. She took them gratefully, taking a massive bite out of the apple. She sighed with relief. "That's exactly what I needed. Thank you sweetheart." She said. He simply kissed her cheekbone in response. She gasped suddenly and Maurice's eyes widened as he leaned back, "What's happening? Is it now?"

"No, no. Calm down, love. They're just trying to kick their way out." She said, taking his hand and putting it on her belly. Sure enough, their baby was banging their feet and hands against Rosalie. "I'm pretty sure they're going to be a little warrior."

"But what if it's a girl?"

Rosalie turned and gave her husband a look, "Does that matter? Even if it's a girl, she'll still be a warrior with those hands and feet. If she wants to be. She may not be able to go and fight for France, but she will have her own battles that she will fight through. All women do."

Maurice was humbled. He looked down quietly, "I'm sorry. You're right, as always, Rosalie."

She laughed and bit into her apple again. She swallowed the big piece down and patted Maurice's knee, "Oh, darling. Don't worry. You can't be expected to be a perfect man all the time, can you?"

"But I should be."

She shook her head, chewing through the last of the apple that she had somehow managed to get through in three bites. "No," She said through the chewed up fruit, "Perfection is not the goal." She swallowed, handing the remaining apple core to Maurice. "Nobody can be perfect. I would never expect nor want you to be perfect all of the time. After all, I'm certainly not perfect."

"Sometimes you fool me into thinking you are." He said, not altogether lying.

She laughed, "Until I go into a raging fit because you've gotten paint on the walls again."

"Yes, until then." He agreed.

* * *

 _Three Weeks Later_

Her cry filled the room for the second time that night.

"I'll get it," Rosalie said, starting to get out of bed.

"No," Maurice said, gently placing an arm in front of her. "Go back to sleep. I'll take care of her." Normally, Rosalie would have protested. But as soon as Maurice had said "back to sleep" she was back down on the mattress, curled back up into her pillow. She was completely exhausted.

Maurice got out of bed and walked over to the small bassinet across the room. He scooped his daughter up out of the small crib, laying her against his chest. "Shh, I know." He muttered. He had already figured out the difference in her cries. This was an "I woke up alone in the dark and I don't like it" cry. After all, Rosalie had just fed her a few hours ago. She had no reason to be hungry, and it was too soon for her to have gone to the bathroom. Maurice walked in a small circle with his baby girl against his shoulder. She relaxed against him, her sobs turning into gentle whines.

"I know, I know Belle." He whispered quietly. "It's not an easy world. Being a baby is hard. Being grown isn't much easier, but you're at least able to control things a bit more." He said, mostly just talking so that she would fall asleep faster. "But you're not any girl. You're Rosalie's spitting image. And you're going to be brave and beautiful just like her. My ray of sunshine." Belle cooed against his shoulder. "Yes, that's you. My beautiful girl. My Belle." He moved her down into his arms so that he was cradling her, looking down into her big eyes. They were blue like her mother's, but he had been told by the midwife that most infants started with blue eyes. Her eyes would likely darken into Maurice's brown, but he didn't want them to.

"Now, if you would please go back to sleep." He asked politely.

She looked up at him curiously, sucking her thumb now.

"You know I can't sing like mom can." He reminded her.

She stared back at him. He wasn't sure, but it seemed she was waiting expectantly.

He sighed and rolled his eyes a bit. He sat down in the rocking chair and rocked a bit, humming a little tune. He didn't like to sing, but he would sing for her if she needed him to. "How does a moment last forever?" He sang so softly it was barely audible. But Belle was listening.

He watched her in his arms. She blinked. She blinked again. She blinked rapidly, then slowly. Then she shut her eyes. But he knew better than to get up right away. He watched her sleeping face and continued to sing softly. She wasn't asleep just yet, but she was nearly there. Even after she had gone limp in his arms, practically snoring, Maurice continued to rock her, his song now finished.

Her innocence was stunning to him. Beautiful was a word he used often when referring to her, but it wasn't accurate. Beauty implied a physical appearance that was extraordinary. He was sure she would be that someday. But she was only a baby now. Her physical beauty was yet unknown. Her real beauty, and the reason he had wanted to name her Belle, was because she had shined like a sun on the day she was born. She had the same spark in her that he had noticed in Rosalie when they had first met. She was radiant. An inner beauty that he could not quite name.

He finally stood and put her back in the bassinet. He could look at her all day, but unfortunately he was too exhausted to keep his eyes open much longer. He quickly fell back into bed with his wife, asleep before his head even touched the pillow.

Maurice woke to the sound of cooing. He vaguely registered the other side of the bed was cool. He opened his eyes and sat up in bed. Rosalie was picking Belle up and their little girl had cooed with happiness. "Can you say 'good morning daddy'?" Rosalie asked their baby girl. Belle gurgled in response. They both laughed. They weren't sure whether it was actual intelligence that allowed her to communicate so quickly, but it certainly felt like she was smart enough.

Maurice rubbed his eyes and got out of bed and stumbled over to his hoard of blank canvases against the wall. He picked one up and grabbed a handful of brushes. Rosalie had sat down in their rocking chair with Belle, handing her daughter her little rose rattle. He didn't say anything as he sat cross legged on the floor in front of them and started his painting. He had wanted to paint something since she was born, but she had been keeping them busy with her fusses. He sketched out a general outline, looking up and getting a glimpse of his wife beaming down at him. He smiled back at her, overcome with joy. His baby was happy, his wife was happy, they were all healthy and safe. He could not have been more at peace.


End file.
